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Updated: May 8, 2025
Smugg as you came along, Joe?" I asked. "Yes, sir. Gone toward Dill's farm, sir." "Ah, Dill's farm!" "Yes, sir." The chop-laden Joe passed on. I mended my pace, and soon found myself on the outskirts of Dill's premises. I had been there before; we had all been there before. Dill had a daughter. I saw her now in a sunbonnet and laced boots.
"You aint as bad as some," she conceded, a dim smile breaking through the clouds. "You mean Smugg," I observed. "Who told you?" she cried. "Joe," said I. "Seems he's got a lot to say to everybody," she commented resentfully. "Ah! he told your mother, did he? Well, you know you shouldn't, Betsy." Robertson." "What! Not to Joe?" "Joe! No; that Smugg." "But Joe told of you."
We considered that Smugg was treating Pyrrha very badly Smugg, an engaged man, aged thirty, presumably past the heat and carelessness of youth.
Smugg stood still for a minute, then put on his hat, looked at his watch, and walked slowly away. I did not keep Smugg's secret; I felt under no obligation to keep it. He deserved no mercy, and I exposed him at breakfast that very morning. But I could not help being a little sorry for him when he came in.
At eleven the next morning, when we had just sat down to work, and Smugg had slid into the room with the stealthy, ashamed air he wore after his morning excursions, Mary appeared, and told us that Joe Shanks, the butcher's son, had come with the chops, and wanted to speak to us. We hailed the diversion, and had Joe shown in.
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